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August, 1999

“Welcome. You’ve got mail.” The announcement was followed by the sound of a squeaky door opening.

I plopped down in the rolling chair, sorting through notifications while Scotty rummaged around the shelves behind me, dusting and organizing. Over the past year, Reed’s east-coast training studio had flourished, with Scotty at the helm, me as the administrator and assistant coach, and a slew of accomplished trainers who helped make this business thrive.

Life had been busy.

Busy, fruitful, and shockingly fulfilling.

While most of my weekdays were spent here, my weekends were almost entirely filled with wedding photography. Photography was my passion, and love was my philosophy—my calling. Combining two of the most important elements of me had been nothing short of therapy.

In a gratifying twist of fate, Monique had stayed true to her self-imposed title of nomad, joining me in Charleston eight months after I’d left Illinois. Together we’d started up a two-person photography business, earning clients through word of mouth, shining referrals, and paper fliers taped around town and in local cafés and coffee shops. We made a good team.

And the fact that I was able to help train fellow survivors at the studio—a full-circle career achievement that paralleled my own recovery process—was the ultimate validation and a testament to my resilience.

Nothing had been easy. Rewarding and necessary, sure, but never easy. Those first six months post-move had been harrowing, heart-wrenching, and hard as hell. Scotty had been a steadfast friend and companion through it all, and while I had attempted to spin our platonic relationship into something more, that soul-sizzling, heart-stealing connection had never managed to bloom.

I’d tried; I truly did. But romantic love could not be forced, and my affections began and ended with friendship.

We’d kissed. We’d gone on dinner dates and sea-swirled walks along the beach, hand in hand. I had done my best to mimic that sparkle in his eyes whenever he looked at me. Yet nothing beyond gratitude and lukewarm feeling ever stirred inside me.

Scotty was understanding; a true friend. And over the past year, he’d settled down with another woman named Angela, well on his way to forging his own love story.

I hoped his ended more happily than mine.

“I’m thinking oysters and ocean waves after work,” Scotty said, breaking into my daydreams. “Ang has a friend in town. We can make it a group thing.”

I scrolled over the newest e-mail and printed it out as a reminder to set up the consultation. “Sounds good to me.”

“You hate oysters.”

“I don’t hate them. I just need to hold my nose while I eat them so I don’t taste them.”

“Smear them in peanut butter.”

My frown went to war with my glare. A formidable battle. “I hate you.”

“Less than peanut butter. I’ll take a win when I see one.”

“When are you proposing?”

“About that.” He pressed a hand over his heart and heaved in a melodramatic sigh. “You complete me, Halley. Marry me.”

I smirked, tossing a pink eraser at him and relishing in the way it bopped off his nose, making him flinch.

He scratched at the lingering tickle. “Fine. As soon as Ang stops making anti-marriage comments, I’m going for it.” Another sigh left him, more defeated than theatrical. “It’s really putting a wrench in my plans. Specifically, the ring-shaped plan sitting in my nightstand drawer.”

“That does complicate things.” I swiveled back to the computer and tapped a pencil to my chin. “But don’t worry. You’ve stashed away the evidence in the most unassuming place. She will never, ever find it there, so your secret is safe and she will be none the wiser.”

“You’re such a brat.”

“Why we’re friends.”

We did a secret handshake. Because we were seven.

Our conversation was interrupted by the AOL chat messenger ding when I switched over to my personal account. A giddy smile crested, and I swiveled back around to face the computer, already knowing who it was.

I reached for the mouse, my grin widening.

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